


Forever And A Day

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Apologetic Sandwiches, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, James Being Very Patient, Love, M/M, Not-Quite-Proposals, Rain, Sick!Michael Being Grumpy, Sickfic, The Empire Strikes Back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael’s really not very good at being a sick person; James is extremely patient but patience has limits; Michael panics; and apologies are very satisfactorily made and accepted all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever And A Day

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bon Jovi’s “Always” (it was almost “Lover of the Light” by Mumford & Sons, but I couldn’t resist the Bon Jovi).

Somehow, Michael’d decided, his current miserable state had to be James’s fault. James, after all, had been the first one to get sick, the week before. Not Michael. James had, clearly, brought illness into their home. Not Michael. So the fact that said illness had chosen to attack Michael with far greater severity had to be James’s fault, too.

He said as much out loud. Or croaked as much. James, who was a terrible person, laughed. “Sorry?”

“Even the germs like you better. Unfair.”

“Oh, I know. I can tell them to be nicer to you, but I don’t think they’ll listen.”

“I hate being sick.”

“Well, you’re not very good at it. Water?”

“I suppose.” He sat up. Let James hand him the bottle. Tried to figure out the logistics of drinking and breathing at the same time, a problem made more complicated by the fact that he couldn’t use his nose.

“Would you like a napkin?”

“This is horrible. How do people survive this?”

“You know, if you got sick more often, it wouldn’t be as bad.”

“That makes entirely no sense.” This time the water consumption was more successful. James retrieved the bottle, and perched it on the nightstand. Stretched both arms above his head, and arched his back, until his spine popped.

“Sexy.” In fact, it kind of was—James in bed beside him, testing each flexible limb, shirt sliding up to reveal a scattering of golden freckles, would never not be sexy—but Michael couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, and so was even more grumpy about his body’s betrayal.

James was right, about him; he wasn’t a very good sick person. Neither of them got sick, even colds, all that frequently—and if they did they pushed themselves through it—but Michael couldn’t even recall the last time he’d felt miserable enough to lie in bed all day. He knew he was being grouchy and taciturn and bad-tempered, and knowing that didn’t mean he could do a damn thing to change it.

James, he suspected, had been much easier to deal with than he himself was being in return. James, when sick, tended to drowsiness and tractability and could be content rereading tattered Star Trek novels until he fell asleep on top of the pages, at which point Michael would gingerly extract the book of the moment and tuck him back into the pillows.

The closest James’d ever got to complaint had been a wistful request for more ice cream, which fortunately they’d had on hand. And then he’d fallen asleep again, hair sticking up all over the place and a smudge of stickiness on his mouth, looking about ten years old, and Michael’d wanted to laugh and smile and watch him sleep forever, heart aching with the fierceness of his love.

He tried to remember that feeling now, but it was rather difficult when every single joint was protesting and his head felt stuffed with wool. It was raining, outside, which didn’t help; the windows grew steamy, because their bedroom was warm, and the intermittent thunder made his brain throb.

And it really was James’s fault. That made sense. Or as much sense as his weary brain could be required to come up with, at least.

“Hmm. You’re out of water.”

“Oh, excellent.”

“No, I mean, we have more, but…you should probably have something a bit more substantial. Orange juice?”

“Whatever.” Even his hair hurt. That shouldn’t be possible. Potentially it was in league with his nose. Some sort of conspiracy to make the entire experience additionally unpleasant. He’d not be surprised.

James hopped off the bed, bounced down the hall, came back. Frighteningly energetic. Made Michael more tired only watching him.

“Here.”

“No pulp...”

“I know. I’m sorry.” James collected the glass from his wobbly hand. Set it securely on the nightstand. “They were out, last week, at the store, remember? So we got this instead.”

“There’s no _texture_. That’s not real orange juice.”

James kind of looked like he wanted to laugh, or maybe roll his eyes, but did neither, which left Michael even more annoyed. He’d been lying there complaining all day, and James was being so damn understanding, hiding those honest reactions, being _patient_. On Michael’s behalf.

“Do you want me to read to you?” James waved a magazine at him. “Your new…whatever this is, it’s got cars on the front…that came in the mail. I could—”

“Fine.” Maybe that would put them both in a better mood.

Except that brilliant plan turned out to be the opposite. Of course. Michael, to his own irritation, kept dozing off in the middle of paragraphs; James, when he noticed, always paused, but then had to start over. Every time.

He didn’t sound frustrated with that fact—no hints of resentment or boredom peeked out from the luscious folds of that Scottish rumble—but he had to be bored. Michael _knew_ he had to be. James didn’t even particularly care about cars, and he’d just read the first five paragraphs of an article on supercar engine comparisons for the upcoming year out loud. Four times.

James was a damn good actor.

“You can stop.”

“Oh…not working for you?”

“I’m not—you’re not interested. I can tell.” Which, he realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth, was not only untrue, but sounded as if he were blaming James for his own inability to stay awake, his exasperation with himself and his weakness and the uncaring world.

He started to say he was sorry, but James’d already picked up the remote. “Don’t worry about it. Television, maybe? And if you fall asleep, it won’t matter.”

“Um…”

“Hmm. Daytime soap operas? Oh…that person’s dying, not very convincingly, but anyway, possibly not. _Top Gear_?”

“Seen that one.”

“Okay…not the news… _Iron Man_? The first one?”

“You like Robert Downey Jr too much. No.”

“One time. I said I thought he was attractive one time.”

“Still.”

“Fine. Sports? Oh, hey, football…I didn’t realize there was a match today, I wonder who—”

“You want me to watch grown men in shorts chase a ball around a field for entertainment?”

James didn’t say anything to that, just flicked the television to another channel, and Michael wanted to smother himself with the closest pillow. James _was_ a football fan, he knew that, of course he knew that. And just because he himself had never seen the point, that didn’t give him the right to mock James’s interests, especially when James was doing pretty much everything in the universe on Michael’s behalf right now.

He opened his mouth to offer, no, wait, you can go back to that one, I’ll likely fall asleep anyway, and then sneezed, instead. Forcefully. Many times.

“Impressive. Tissues?”

“…thank you.” At least he hoped the words were intelligible.

“Not a problem. Oh—I think you’re due for more medication, actually, hang on…”

“That tastes disgusting.”

“I know.”

“I hate being sick. I never get sick. I’m not supposed to be sick.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Of course you will. Juice? Sorry again about the no-pulp.”

Michael took a sip, mostly to get the medicinal taste out of his mouth. Flopped back down into the pillows, which cuddled him, soothingly cool.

“Good.” James leaned over and kissed his temple, briefly. “Love you. Are you going to try to sleep?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm…have you actually had anything to eat, today? I could—”

Pillow over head. Weakly obscene gesture in James’s direction. “No.” Except his stomach, traitorous beast, decided to make an interested noise, at the mention of food.

“You probably ought to. I’m going to see what we have, okay?”

“Mmph.”

“Yes, then. I’ll be right back.”

He knew that James’d gotten up, because the air changed. Felt more empty, now. Lonelier. Ridiculous, of course. The air, the space on the bed beside him, the pillows, couldn’t understand loneliness. They lacked the ability to feel deprived.

But they did, in any case.

James’d left the television, with the sound turned down, on _Top Gear_. Michael turned his head, in the pillows, just far enough to watch Jeremy Clarkson attempt to drive an SUV across an active volcano. Lava-scorched earth, he decided, probably felt a lot like the interior of his throat, right now.

James came back, after a while. Holding a bowl. “So…I was going to find you a banana, but we don’t have any. But, well, I wanted ice cream, when I had the sore throat and everything, last week, so maybe that’ll help you?”

It did, a little. James sat next to him and looked slightly happier, and Michael managed a few more bites. Vanilla. Creamy. Delicious. It felt satisfying, cooling raw tissues when he swallowed. And tasted sweet. Surprisingly so.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Is this…this wouldn’t be your _not_ non-fat, _not_ no-sugar-added ice cream, would it?”

“Ah…”

“I’m on a diet, James. Did you forget that?”

“No.” James bit his lip. Accepted the bowl, when Michael emphatically pushed it in his direction. “No, I just—you’re sick and you haven’t had anything else to eat, all day, and you could probably use the calories, and I thought—”

“Some of us care about our diets even when we’re sick, James.”

“But you’re not—”

“You’re doing voice work. Animation. You don’t have to care. You can weigh two hundred pounds if you want to. I’m doing a Bond film. I can’t.”

“I—you think I’m…Never mind. You—”

“I know you were trying to help, but could you just…” He waved a hand. Not quite sure what he was asking. Heard the silence, and then heard James swallow, almost inaudible.

“Do you…want me to leave you alone?”

Michael shut his eyes. So damn tired. Everywhere. Inside and out. He couldn’t think. And James was asking what he wanted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“All right. You should try to sleep, though, all right? It’ll help.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll come back in a while and check on you, if you want—”

“Do whatever the hell you want,” Michael said, mostly because he was angry with himself and he knew he ought to apologize to James and he couldn’t make himself say the words and his head hurt, and then he rolled over and hid under the topmost blanket, because he couldn’t look at blue eyes right then.

More silence; and then James got up, off the bed. Michael still wasn’t looking, but he could hear each movement, a little awkward, clumsy.

James was many things—excited, exuberant, gleeful, ready to talk with hands and arms and his entire body, inviting the universe into the sweep of the conversation—but he was rarely clumsy. In fact, Michael thought, slowly, sluggish with the drugs and the fatigue and the soreness, he couldn’t remember having seen James ever _be_ clumsy, before.

He opened his eyes. Peeked out from under his blanket.

James was already out of the bedroom. Not quite out of sight, but Michael could only see that broad back, the last wisps of curling hair, tantalizingly far away. Vanishing down the hallway. Turning into the kitchen, even as Michael desperately emerged from his blanket-cocoon, and gone from view.

He pushed himself up on an elbow and tried to say, “Wait,” but his voice stuck in his throat, because his body wasn’t working properly, not yet, not now, when he needed it to.

James didn’t come back.

Of course he didn’t. Michael’d practically told him to leave. No. Michael’d called him fat, accused him of not caring what he looked like, snapped at him for trying to help, and found fault with everything he’d done up until this exact moment. And _then_ told him to leave.

“James,” he said, but it wasn’t loud enough, marginally audible even to his ears. The rain pounded away, outside, and drowned the name in any case.

He collapsed back into the pillows. Used one of them to muffle a cough. Then tossed it towards the door, because potentially that’d get James’s attention. Missed and hit the wall, because he had approximately zero upper body strength at the moment.

He wanted to groan out loud, and in fact started to, but then he had to cough again, so he stopped trying to make noise, at that.

James’d said he’d come back. To check up. So he would. James didn’t make promises without meaning to keep them. Michael could apologize to him then. And surely James would understand. James was good at understanding. At being kind.

He curled up beneath the blankets. They cradled him in comforting fuzziness. Somehow that made it all worse: even their bedding considered him a pitiable object.

And James didn’t reappear, and the rain thumped unceasingly away. Somewhere in there, still trying to watch the door for any signs of movement, hoping to catch a returning footfall, he slipped imperceptibly over the edge into sleep.

He woke up to the sounds of lightsabers and stentorian breathing, and lay there thinking _what the hell?_ for a few seconds, until he shoved his eyelids open and found the television again, DVD player turned on, _The Empire Strikes Back_ playing in the background, not loudly. Cloud City. Shadows and revelations and father-son duels. Okay.

When had someone put on _Star Wars_ , again? And someone, of course, had to be James, who knew perfectly well that Michael still owned his childhood AT-AT model figurines, because James’d been the one to dig them out of the box and laugh for five minutes and then display them on the bookshelf right next to James’s U.S.S. Enterprise.

On the screen, Luke was clearly losing, unsuccessfully dodging flying city pieces. A large chunk of metal bounced off his shoulder, no doubt leaving a vicious bruise. Michael winced in sympathy.

James hadn’t come back to sit beside him on the bed. There was, however, an extra blanket, neatly folded, over his feet. A bottle of water, lid already considerately open, on the nightstand, next to the tissues and the cough drops and the abandoned magazine.

The flat was very quiet, apart from the on-screen battling.

There was also Michael’s mobile phone, sitting placidly atop the tissue box. Holding down a piece of paper. A note.

His hand shook, slightly, when he picked it up. He couldn’t’ve said why.

It didn’t contain much. Only, in James’s messy handwriting, the ends of the letters jumping all over each other in every direction, _I love you. Call me if you need anything, I have my phone, all right?_ And a tiny sketch that, Michael decided after some tilting of his head, James’d probably meant to be an Ewok.

James never could draw. Even quickly-scribbled hearts, inside Valentine’s Day cards, came out lopsided. Michael’d always teased him about that.

This Ewok looked a lot like a bear cub, or maybe a fluffy cat. If cats could hold tiny slingshots. It gazed up at him, voicelessly, from the paper.

If he kept looking at the bear-cat-Ewok artistic endeavor, he wouldn’t have to process the words. Wouldn’t have to realize that James was gone. Somewhere else. Not here.

James hadn’t told him where.

The rain kept pouring down, outside, hammering on the roof and the glass of the windowpane, and the bedroom, abruptly, felt colder than it’d ever been before. He’d told James to leave. What if James _had_ left?

On the television, Luke Skywalker lost a hand, found a father. Howled in pain. Michael sat there alone in the enormous bed, blanket over his feet and the rain drumming endlessly through the world, and felt the screaming in his own heart, too.

James couldn’t’ve left. Wouldn’t. James wouldn’t do that. James’d written _I love you_. James wouldn’t say that unless he meant to come back.

Would he?

“No,” Michael said, out loud, to the rain, to the movie, to his own horrified fears. “No.”

James’d left his mobile phone within reach. He grabbed it.

The call failed. He stared at the screen. Tried again. This time it rang, only once, and James didn’t pick up. Voicemail.

His hands were shaking so badly he dropped the phone. It bounced across the pillows and slid mischievously onto the carpet, under the bed.

“No,” he said again, and then flung himself out of bed and onto the floor, needing to retrieve it, needing to have it, something to hold onto, in case James called him, in case James wanted to call him, in case James had barely missed picking up the last time and was about to call him back.

The screen stayed dark and Michael tried to breathe, through the panic and the sickness and the despair like a punch in the stomach, tender organs unsuspecting until the instant of brutal impact.

A sound. Maybe. He thought he’d heard it. Out in the kitchen. Maybe James was here, had come back, after all. Maybe Michael could run out there and fall on his knees and apologize. He could certainly manage the latter two, if not the running, at least.

He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the blanket James’d left for him and ventured out of the bedroom, clinging to the phone.

There had been a noise. It’d come from the refrigerator. Grumbling to itself. It did so again, as Michael stood there helplessly in the kitchen, the cold of the tile floor searing through his socks, the rain splashing away and plummeting from overhangs and rooftop corners and pooling mournfully on the ground.

No James. Not even dishes in the sink. And James’d evidently taken out the trash. It hadn’t even been full.

The fridge muttered dire warnings at him again, and Michael kicked it without thinking, which made the freezer drawer pop open, because it was technically broken and they’d been meaning to replace the ancient appliance anyway, they just hadn’t gotten around to it yet, both of them busy and never home enough to remember.

The impulsive action also left his toes hurting, because he was wearing socks and the horrible fridge was wearing metal. His own fault, though. He deserved the pain.

He started to nudge the drawer shut—with his other foot, more carefully, this time—and then stopped.

James’s ice cream was gone. Out of the freezer. Leaving an empty spot in the back, between Michael’s own nearly-empty guilty-pleasure non-fat chocolate frozen yogurt and the ice-cube trays.

He stood there staring blankly at the space. It stared back, all chilly accusation.

The ice-cube trays were all full. He didn’t remember filling them, but he did remember complaining that they’d been nearly out, the day before.

James must’ve filled them. And they were all frozen solid, which meant James’d taken care of them much earlier. Before all this.

Before James had left. Before James had turned on _The Empire Strikes Back_ , and brought Michael an extra blanket, and tossed his own ice cream out of their freezer, and drawn a terrible attempt at an Ewok and written _I love you_ , and left.

He didn’t know when he’d started crying. The tears burned. Too hot, scorching his face.

He found himself leaning against the counter, not quite able to hold himself up, not able to see through all the wetness. Whispering, “I’m sorry,” to the air and the refrigerator and the ice-cube trays and James, who wasn’t there, who wouldn’t hear him, because Michael hadn’t said the words when they mattered, when they might’ve made any difference.

His mobile phone lit up. Buzzed. He literally jumped, at the unexpected noise. Almost fell over, balance being a problematic concept at the moment in so many ways.

A text message. James.

_You tried to call me? Need something?_

Michael breathed in, shakily. Hit keys, after a first failed attempt. _Yes. You. Where are you?_

_Store. Horrible reception in here, sorry. Heading back now, unless you need me to get anything on the way?_

_No. I love you. James?_

_Love you. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right there. :- )_

_I mean it. I love you._

_Don’t make me draw you another Ewok. One was hard enough. And I know it looks like a dog, you don’t have to say it._

_Cat?_

_If you say so._

_I’m sorry. And I love you._

_Home in two minutes. Stop worrying. Go to sleep. I need this hand to hold the umbrella anyway, it’s raining._

It _was_ raining. Heavily. Storming, in fact. And James’d gone out in the storm.

Michael, propped up by the supportive countertop and his helpful blanket, took a deep breath. Then one more. He wanted to answer, but James’d more or less asked him not to. Needed hands for whatever he’d bought plus the umbrella. Michael couldn’t make him keep typing in the rain.

He wanted to be relieved, too—James had answered him, was coming home, hadn’t left—but he couldn’t be, yet. Because James _had_ gone out, had felt the need to leave, despite the billowing tempest outside. James’d thought that was easier than remaining in the flat, with him.

James had gotten rid of the ice cream. Had ended the conversation. Hadn’t said anything in response to Michael’s _I’m sorry_.

It might not be as bad as he’d feared, waking up irrational and alone and guilty, but it was bad enough. He’d hurt James.

He thought about the ice cream again. Suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen James eat anything, since breakfast, either.

Two minutes, James’d said. He’d be coming from right around the corner, most likely, but the sidewalks were slippery, and it wouldn’t be a quick walk.

Michael eyed the now-quiescent refrigerator. It feigned innocence right back. “You can damn well be helpful this time,” he said to it, and paused to cough, “this is for James,” and when he opened up the doors they swung eagerly wide. Of course that worked. It would’ve worked on him, too.

He didn’t have the time, or the energy, to make anything elaborate, even though he wanted to. James always did appreciate his cooking. Or always had. Later, he promised silently. Something utterly spectacular. James deserved as much.

For now, he contemplated the sandwich, added extra tomato slices because James liked them, all ripe and red and juicy, and then cut the whole thing in half, as artistically as he could manage without sacrificing speed. Arranged the plate on the table, grabbed a napkin, hastily folded it, failed, tossed it towards the trash can, tried again. Better.

Stared at the table for a while. Too bare. If he had more time, if he wasn’t hideously grotesquely disgustingly ill, he could go buy flowers. The big cheerful kind, like sunflowers, that would brighten up the room and the greyness and make James smile.

He lunged for another napkin. And the pens, in the cup by the answering machine.

He finished with approximately five seconds to spare, before the key rattled in the lock and the door opened, with James on the other side.

Michael spun around and meant to go help, to collect bags or take a wet jacket or just throw his arms around those familiar broad shoulders, but found himself standing in place, arrested mid-motion, blanket sliding down over his arms and puddling on the kitchen floor.

James. Here. Real. Very wet, and shaking his head in a vain attempt to dislodge clinging hair from his face, and kicking off soaked shoes, and here. Home.

James looked over at him. Blinked beautiful eyes, all sapphire-blue and quizzical, brilliant against the silvery mist of the afternoon. “Weren’t you in bed?”

“I…” He couldn’t talk. If he tried, he’d cry. So he just walked over to James and put both arms around him, heedless of the lingering cold and the wet and the rain-sprinkled bags. James dropped them all with a thud, and then folded his arms around Michael too.

Michael buried his face in all that storm-dampened hair, and breathed in, and tasted rain, and chilly city fog, and James, in his arms. Letting himself be held.

“Okay…” James rubbed hands up and down Michael’s back, gently, reassurance. Pulled him in a little more closely, and leaned up to kiss his ear, lightly, affectionate. “I’m here. I’m fine, okay? Everything’s fine. I only went to the store, I thought I’d be back before you even noticed I was gone, I’m sorry if I worried you, all right? Do you want to sit down?”

Michael shook his head. Kept holding on. If he let go, James might leave again. Could evaporate, into thin air. Like dying raindrops.

“Okay,” James said again, and just stood there holding him, arms solidly present around his back, compact warmth pressed up against his front, and each soft exhale brushing over Michael’s neck.

Overhead, outside, the thunder purred and muttered to itself, settling down, growing calm. Water dripped from James’s hair and onto Michael’s shoulder, and Michael touched his lips to the top of that head and left them there, a drawn-out kiss, or only the need to feel James with every one of his senses.

James smiled; Michael could feel the upturn of lips, across his skin. “Better?”

“Maybe. I love you.”

“I know you do. I love you, too.”

“James. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For—everything. I’ve been fucking awful to you, today. And you’re magnificent. And I was—I thought you—I thought I’d—why didn’t you leave?”

“…magnificent? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm….all right. I don’t mind that one. You were…were you asking why I didn’t leave you? Honestly?”

“You could have. You _should_ have. I said—”

“You said some fairly tactless things, yes. Not going to disagree. But…” James tipped his head up. Met Michael’s gaze with his own; and one corner of that mobile mouth curved upward, expressive. “I’m not going to leave you just because you turn into an incredible ass when you’re sick, you know.”

“I’m sorry. Again. Forever. Please don’t leave.”

“You really were scared.”

“I—yes. I _am_.”

“Michael,” James said, very patiently, and put a hand on his face, drawing him closer, making him look down while James was looking up, so they were nearly eye to eye, “I love you. You do understand what that means, right?”

“You…it means you draw me Ewoks. That look like cats. And you forgive me when I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you. I…might need to sneeze. I’m sorry.”

At which James started laughing, even more so when Michael finally did sneeze, fortunately not on him. “Here, I did buy you more tissues…”

“…thank you.”

“Oh…I should probably put the rest of this away. I found the real orange juice, this time. With texture. And also I bought more of your chocolate not-ice-cream; you were pretty much out. If you stop holding my hand, I can go put this in the freezer—”

“Wait!”

“What? Why?”

“You didn’t eat lunch, did you?”

“Well…not in so many words…”

“Not in any words, right?”

“I…”

“Here.” He tugged on James’s hand. Pulled him into the kitchen. Waved at the table; he’d meant it to be a more elaborate reveal, but his head felt all clouded from the congestion and collision of illness and emotion. “Surprise?”

James stopped in his tracks. Stared at the table. Blinked. Twice.

“Um…please say something?”

“You…made me a sandwich? And you…” James put out a hand. Picked up the last-minute table decoration. “You drew me sunflowers. On a napkin.”

“I couldn’t buy you real flowers. Not in two minutes. But I will if you want me to. If you say you want them. Anything you want.” Anything. Anything at all. Anything James might want, that he could do.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did. I love you. I—you went to the store, in the rain, and you bought me orange juice, and you threw away your ice cream because I’m an ass, and I’m sorry.” That’d come out confusingly disjointed, but James was smiling a tiny bit, now, so maybe the apology wasn’t a total disaster.

“I love you, too. There’s extra tomato in this, isn’t there?”

“…yes?”

“Come here.” James leaned up and kissed him, firmly, on the mouth. “Thank you. And you’re right, I am kind of hungry. I hadn’t really noticed, until now.”

“Then sit down. Eat. I’ll put this away.” He waited until James had taken a bite, safely ensconced in a happy kitchen chair, and then started disemboweling drenched grocery bags. He still felt as though he wanted to fall over on his feet, exhausted all the way to his bones, but James was home and eating a sandwich and had miraculously forgiven him and so Michael shut the refrigerator door and then sank into the opposite chair and stared at him.

James considered this for a minute. “You know, you scrutinizing my every mouthful is kind of unnerving.”

“Sorry. I’m—are you…you’re done? That’s only half. Why are you only eating half? You said you were hungry.”

“I’m—”

“—oh god. I’m so sorry, James, you’re not fat, you know that, right? I mean, I’d love you if you were, I’ll never care what you look like, I love _you_ , but you’re _not_ —” He dropped his head into his arms, on the table. Offered, through them, “I’m—you said an incredible ass? I _am_. You can shout at me any time now.”

“You…would love me no matter what I looked like?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t read that tone. Didn’t dare glance at the eyes. “It’s not a conditional—it’s not a _would_. I _will_. Always. I’m always going to love you.”

“Unconditional…so…all right, then, so if I gained a hundred pounds and shaved my head and got the stupid freckles on my nose removed—”

Michael looked up. James was grinning. And had picked up the other half of the sandwich.

So he took a deep breath. Managed not to cough. Said, cautiously, “I’d love you even then, but I’d miss your freckles?” and James laughed. “I know you would. I’m not planning to do any of that, you know.”

“I…know?”

“And I’m not planning to leave you. Not ever. Especially not when you make me sandwiches and draw me sunflowers. You’re stuck with me, now.”

“James,” Michael said, quietly, emphatically, “I like being stuck with you.” He meant, one more time: please never leave me.

The sapphires softened, in those eyes. Warmed, when they met his. “I love you. About the ice cream…I kind of regret that already. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I love you. Why did you—”

“I was making some sort of gesture, I think. I was hurt, and I was trying not to be hurt, and you said—and maybe you were right, and it reminded me of you. I don’t know. Stupid.”

“I wasn’t right. About anything. Forget everything I said today, and I’ll buy you more tomorrow?”

“Um…not everything.” James got up. Walked around the table, and picked up both of Michael’s hands in his. “I kind of like the part where you said unconditional. I have an idea; want to hear it?”

“Yes?” Please.

“We go back into the bedroom. I hold you, you hold me—”

“I like your idea.”

“I’m not finished. But you can kiss my fingers again if you want. They enjoyed that.”

“Like this?”

“Very much like that. We can hold each other, and you can feed me the rest of this delicious sandwich and I can make sure you at least drink orange juice, and we can start the movie over, or move on to _Return of the Jedi_ if you feel like seeing actual Ewoks, and neither of us will go anywhere, and we’ll both be happy. Sound good?”

“Yes. James?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you—I mean, I know you said it, and you’re here, and you’re not—but can you say it one more time? Please?”

“Of course.” James studied their joined hands, for a second. Out in the world, the rain chattered merrily to the clouds. And when James looked back up, at him, the blue eyes were very calm, sincere and open and unguarded and full of love.  “I’m not leaving you. Not ever. You did say unconditional, and you meant it, and I mean that, too. I always will. I love you. Better?”

“…yes.” He kissed freckled fingertips once more. Lifted James’s hand to rest against his cheek, where it felt cool and comforting. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Michael…you know that thing that people say? In the marriage vows?”

“…I…are you…James, are you asking…”

“No!” But James was laughing, hands remaining entwined in Michael’s, squeezing back as Michael’s fingers tightened. “Or, well, maybe I am, I could be, yes. I mean, not _now_ , if I’m going to ask you I’m going to do it properly, with rings, and champagne or something, but—”

“You— _yes_ —I mean you don’t need champagne or any of that, you don’t have to—yes, James, this is me saying yes, and I love you—”

“I haven’t officially asked you yet!” James was still laughing. “But that is nice to know. For when I do ask you. You know, sometime, once I’ve gone shopping, or we’ve gone shopping, since I might like the idea of us picking out rings together, and once I’ve actually made plans…”

“Sometime soon?” Michael said, probably too plaintively, and then sneezed. Of course.

“Very soon. Tissue? And that’s what I was going to say, really, in sickness and in health, and all that…”

“And everything. Always. You said when. Not if. _When_ you ask me.”

“I did,” James said, smiling, and then kissed him again, there in the familiar kitchen, amid the awkward tissues and curious sandwich crumbs and cheerful sunflower napkins, accompanied by the ecstatic dance of the rain.


End file.
